


The Limits of Forgiveness

by WDHawthorne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, M/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WDHawthorne/pseuds/WDHawthorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens after John takes Mary back?  Does he know everything he needs to know?  And if he finds there's more, can he still forgive?  At least he knows he will always have Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Limits of Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> As a viewer of Sherlock on PBS in the U.S., I’ve intentionally avoided all Sherlock S3 reviews, discussions, comments, and stories until I was able to view all three of the new episodes, (the last aired Sunday night). Loved the first two, hated the last. Here’s my first personal take on a fix-it fiction for the future written using all my raw emotion from having just viewed the last episode once. It covers how I feel about S3, Episode 3 in particular, (my God, I really liked Mary up until she pulled that trigger!) and what I’m plotting for the next season(s). I have so many issues with the last episode! And, since TPTB seemed to want to help us swallow what they served us by intentionally causing confusion with their non-linear presentation of their story, this fic is also non-linear. Sort of.  
> Since I haven’t read any other S3 fics yet, I imagine this may not be the first of its kind, but well…I had to get it off my chest. Moriarty alive? Meh. It's the rest of the ep that gutted me. (I blame you, Moffat!)  
> Comments welcome!

 

Bill hadn’t gotten John’s chair placed exactly right, and Sherlock was having none of that.  With an effort that was almost too much for his weakened state, he pushed John’s chair the extra few inches back into the right placement, exactly where it always used to be.  He could tell by the chair foot indentations left in the carpet over the years.  He set the perfume bottle on the side table.  He couldn’t tell John outright what he knew—but he was confident that John would piece it all together fairly quickly, whether he wanted to or not.  John wasn’t the sort to avoid a truth just because it was nasty.  He was brave, and grounded, and knew how to use confrontation to clear the air.  Now he had to go prepare the remaining details of his plan, quickly, before anyone discovered him here, and before his stamina gave out. 

And then Sherlock would fix this.  Somehow.  Because Sherlock had made a vow, to them both, and he couldn’t bear the thought of his John hurting.

***

John looked so small lying on the sofa like that, all curled up into a defensive ball, his back facing the room, wearing his natty robe over his checkered flannel pajamas.  His little feet were bare, and Sherlock didn’t know if John had brought any slippers when he’d shown up at the flat this afternoon with only a small duffle bag in hand and a broken expression on his face.  With eyes too big to be real, John had just stood there, silent, and Sherlock had known—not deduced, but _known_ —that John was back, not just for a few weeks or months this time, but probably for good.  

The thought of John back with him in Baker Street should have pleased Sherlock, but it did not.  He could only feel pain for what John was going through.

Sherlock took the old plaid blanket from the top of John’s chair by the fireplace, opened it up, and gently draped it over his sleeping friend, careful not to wake him.  He stood and gazed down at John, his face now half-burrowed into the soft wool, and entertained the notion of perhaps a soothing caress over his hair.  He remembered how surprisingly soft that hair was, remembered pushing it to stand up and winding the ends around his fingertips to make little curls as he prepared John to be his “stand in” when they confronted Mary.  Did Mary appreciate how soft John’s hair was?  Did Mary appreciate how soft John’s _heart_ was?

***

The first time John had come back to stay with Sherlock, none of them knew if it was a permanent or temporary situation.  Sherlock was desperate to help John and Mary reconcile, hating how John moped about the place, and worrying that he was part of the reason why.  Sherlock feared that if Mary hadn’t shot him, then John would have had a much easier time forgiving her.  Sherlock didn’t see that Mary’s past was that big of a deal.  Mary was still the person John fell for, and as far as Sherlock was concerned, a little bit of assassin’s history would simply make her more interesting.  Wouldn’t John think so too, once he actually thought about it?  Sherlock hated seeing John so sad, and tried every way he could to keep his vow to the two of them.  So Sherlock did everything he could to help John process his feelings, short of actually talking about them out loud.  But for a change, he highly encouraged John’s visits with Ella.

After one of his semi-weekly sessions, John came home and stood before Sherlock, who was lying on the couch in his pajamas and dressing gown, hands folded primly in front of his chin, eyes closed.

“Case?” John asked.

“No.”

“Oh.”  John blinked, shifted on his feet, then cleared his throat.  “Can I talk to you about something?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, and with an arched brow, took in John’s appearance, trying to deduce his mood and what he wanted to say.  He looked…uncomfortable, but neither happy nor sad.  “Of course.”

John looked down at Sherlock on the sofa, and then across at his armchair, then at the little desk chair, and then back to Sherlock.  He leaned over and patted Sherlock’s legs.  “Budge over, let me sit.”

Sherlock sighed, because he always sighed when someone made him get up from the sofa, and rose to sit in the middle.  John shrugged and sat at the near end.  Sherlock thought about lying back down and putting his feet up into John’s lap, but he didn’t like lying with his head on the far end.  So he simply settled himself back down with his head resting mostly on John’s thigh.

“Sherlock!” John chuckled, his hand raised as if he didn’t know where to put it. 

“Problem?”

John gingerly lowered his hand to rest it on Sherlock’s chest.  “No.  No, it’s fine.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again.  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

John’s palm settled over Sherlock’s bandage.  “How does this feel now?  Giving you any problems?”

Sherlock’s eyes popped open and he frowned up at John, lifting his head just a bit to get a better view of John’s face and not just his chin and the underside of his nose.  “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?  You could have just asked.”    He settled his head back down on John’s leg, thinking that John’s thigh muscle was really quite too hard to make a very good pillow.  “It’s fine, John.  It itches sometimes, mostly just where the tape sticks to my skin.  And I don’t like it when the tape sticks to my chest hair.”

John chuckled, and Sherlock raised his head up to look at him again.  He liked that sound, and heard it so rarely these days.  As in never.

“No, you prat!” John laughed as his other hand ruffled Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock closed his eyes again, mostly in pleasure, but he pretended to be thinking for John’s sake. 

“It was just small talk,” John continued, smoothing out the ruffled curls absently.  “I was just trying to work up to saying what I need to say.”

Sherlock kept his eyes closed.  He knew John was no good at saying heartfelt stuff, and he’d probably find it easier to do if Sherlock wasn’t scrutinizing him.  “It’s all right, John.  Just say it.”

It took a few moments for John to prepare his thoughts.  “You know, I’ve been working though a lot of my feelings in my sessions with Ella.  How I feel about Mary’s past, whether I want to read that USB stick, how I feel about her shooting you—”

Sherlock raised his head and looked up at John sharply.  “I’m _fine_ , John.  Don’t make me part of your decision on whether you want to go back to Mary.”

John just looked back at him quietly.  There was something going on in John’s head, but Sherlock couldn’t read it, making him feel a bit frustrated.  John had always been such an open book before all this.  Sherlock stayed still while John gazed at him, and then he felt John’s palm settle against his chest again.

“One of the things I’ve discovered while working with Ella,” John continued, “is that I have some guilt over some of my actions—”

“Oh no you don’t!” Sherlock interrupted as he sat all the way up sharply and turned to face John.  You have nothing you should feel guilty about.  You are perfect and have always been perfect!  I’m the sociopath, and Mary, and—”

“Sherlock!  Calm down,” John put both hands up in a vague placating gesture.  Sherlock closed his mouth, but stared at John, frowning.  John patted his lap.  “Come on, lie back down, and just shut up, okay?  Let me say what I need to say.”

Sherlock huffed and swung himself around to settle his head into John’s lap again.  Hmm.  Now that he’d changed position so that his head was centered more on both thighs, it was much more comfortable.  Sherlock nestled in contentedly and nodded. 

“All right.  Continue.”

“Okay,” John soothed, and stroked his hand over the bandage on Sherlock’s chest again.  Sherlock closed his eyes.  “What I’m trying to say is that even though _you_ don’t think I should feel guilty, the fact that I actually _do feel it_ means I have to work this through.  So what I want to say is that I’m sorry I was kind of a shit to you.  I promised you that marriage wouldn’t change things with us, and the first thing I did after getting married was leave you for a month!”

“John!  I understand.  You were on your sex holiday.”

“Hush up, Sherlock.  Doesn’t matter what you think.  I need to say this.”  John took a deep breath, hesitated, then said softly, “Sherlock.  You’re an addict.”

“Yes.  So?”

“So you have an addictive personality—drugs, cigarettes, for sure.  But I want to apologize about going out and getting drunk with you.  I should not have endorsed over-imbibing with you knowing that you struggle with addiction.”

“That’s foolish, John.  I am in control of my addictions.”

John gave a sharp little tug on one of Sherlock’s curls.  “Do you really have any idea of what percentage of addicts say those exact words at one time or another?  The fact is, I should have not have let you drink that much, it was bad judgment on my part.  And then, when I up and left you for a whole month…” John sighed sadly, and Sherlock looked up at him in confusion.  “And I come back only to find you in a drug den…  It feels like I might have had something to do with your falling off the wagon.”

“IT WAS FOR A CASE!” Sherlock nearly shouted.

John didn’t respond in kind.  Instead he stayed quiet and controlled, petting Sherlock’s chest gently, with no sign of anger in his voice or on his face.  “I know you think that.  It’s just that…I’m not so sure.  And for the part that I played in that, I am so very sorry.”

What was it about John’s words, about his voice, about his palm warming Sherlock’s chest that made Sherlock’s eyes hurt?  What was it that made his throat tight and his lips tremble?  Sherlock sat up so abruptly he nearly clunked his head into John’s, and then he stood and stepped toward the desk.  He pressed his lips together and suppressed their quivering, and mashed his eyes shut to stop the burning.  He took a breath and let it out, and then looked desperately at the desk for some kind of diversion, excuse, anything.

“It’s all right, John,” he answered softly.  “I still think you have nothing to apologize for, but since you feel you do… I forgive you.”  Sherlock then snatched one of Lestrade’s open case files off the desk and chucked it at John.  Better to throw something at him than do what he really felt like doing.

“Here, see what you can make of this,” he instructed gruffly as John ‘oophed’ in surprise.as the folder landed haphazardly in his lap and Sherlock moved to his chair.

John picked up the folder from his lap, but didn’t look at it right away.  Instead he just stared at Sherlock.  “And now you’ve had them pumping morphine into you, and I’m just worried about you.  I want you to know that I’m here for you, no matter what, no matter what my own situation is…if you… like if you get any _cravings_ or anything.”

Sherlock looked sharply at John, amazed once again at how decent this man was.  How could he be up to his neck in his own problems and still find a space in him to feel guilt, to worry, about Sherlock?

“I…I… Of course, John,” Sherlock stuttered, then cleared his throat and stared blankly at his laptop, not really seeing the screen at all.

***

Sherlock stood next to Mary as he let John pay the taxi fare.  John was taking forever to get the right amount out of his wallet, so Sherlock took advantage of the relative privacy and turned to Mary.  “The name of the person you were running from was Moriarty.  He was your pressure point.  And Magnussen knew that.”

Shocked and dumbfounded, Mary could only stare at Sherlock with her eyes wide.  By the time John had turned toward them, she was able to school her facial expression, but it took an effort to keep John from noticing how her hands shook.

It was the first time Sherlock had linked her to Moriarty.

But it wasn’t the last

***

John was with him for five months, struggling with the truth about Mary, staying until Christmas, at which time he moved back in with Mary for the last time.  When the final truth came out shortly after that, John returned to Sherlock for good.

***

John stood there with his hands clenched, shoulders squared, chin up, and appeared ready to head into battle.  But the only battle to be fought here would be entirely domestic. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“You said my past was my own business.”  Mary wouldn’t look him in the eye.  This was not like the last time.  There could be no good outcome to this, no matter how good—or how honorable—her husband was.  Sherlock had warned her that she should be the one to tell him, and had promised her that it wouldn’t come from him.  That left only one other person who could have done this, and it was the worst of all possible scenarios.  Yes.  She should have paid more heed to Sherlock’s advice.

John took a breath and pressed his lips together in a tight line, thought, and then answered.  “I did.  I did say that.  What you did before you became Mary Morstan five years ago is the past.  But _this_ …,” he stopped himself as he heard his voice rising.  He scrubbed a hand through his hair and took two calming breaths before he could continue.  “This isn’t from five years ago.  This affects me.  This affects our ‘family’. Don’t you think you should have told me this?”

Mary shrugged and stared out the window, spent, defeated, no tears, no emotion.  “It was all on the USB stick I gave you.  You were the one who chose to burn it.”

“Sherlock had insinuated you were a spy, an operative for the CIA, something like that.  Did he know?  Did he say that just to keep the peace between you and me?”

“If you’d known I was an assassin for Jim Moriarty would you have chosen to burn the stick and let it be in the past?  Would you have forgiven me?”

John shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I might have.  _You shot Sherlock_.  You shot my best, smartest, sweetest friend to cover up your lies.  He almost _died_!  _Twice_!  And you threatened him again right in front of me.  If he hadn’t had your face displayed on that building, what would have happened?”  John was breathless in his anger and paused to take some deep breaths, eyes closed, his hands raised to stop her from replying.  When he spoke again his voice was low and controlled.  “But I forgave all that.  I forgave you.  _He_ forgave you.  And this, this working for Moriarty thing, if it was truly in the past, I’d like to think I might have forgiven that, too.  But it wasn’t five years past, was it?  That was what Magnusson really had over you.  You’ve worked for Moriarty _after_ you became Mary, _after_ you met me. And then _this_ …” John made a helpless gesture at her swollen middle as his shoulders drooped.  “I don’t know if I have it in me to forgive this.”

***

 Sherlock had takeout delivered to the flat, but John’s chin rested on his hand as he merely pushed the food around on his plate.  Sherlock waited a few more minutes as the meal completely cooled before taking John’s plate from him.  Then he poured John two fingers of a very nice scotch, straight up, and handed it to him.

John nodded his thanks, and lifted the corner of his mouth up into a strained smile that only flickered for a moment.  Then John pushed himself from the table and took his drink out to the sitting room, settling into his armchair with a long, tired sigh.  Sherlock followed with a drink of his own and seated himself across from John.  He couldn’t take his eyes off him.  John looked so sad, so shattered, so much worse than when Sherlock had eavesdropped at the cemetery.  It would be a long time before John would get past this.

Shaking his head, as if in disbelief, John murmured, “Moriarty.”

Sherlock straightened his leg out and gently touched John’s stockinged foot with his own bare toes, not knowing how else to offer acceptable comfort at the moment.

“Moriarty, Sherlock,” John repeated.  “Mori-fucking-arty.” 

“I know,” Sherlock whispered.  “I’m sorry, John.”

John pressed trembling lips together and then knocked back half the scotch in one swallow.  He stared at the last embers of a fire Sherlock had built earlier in their re-furbished fireplace.  A tear leaked down the side of his cheek, leaving a shiny path glistening in the waning light. 

Sherlock extended both legs, gently, warmly covering John’s feet with his own.  He didn’t know if he should do something more overt, more…tactile, but he knew John well enough to know that he never shed tears publicly.  (He hadn’t known his cemetery breakdown wasn’t private, and if he had, it never would have happened.)  So Sherlock stayed quiet, and let his toes do his comforting.  John seemed to appreciate it.  He didn’t shrink away from it at least.

***

John was still seeing a patient in the exam room, but it was the end of the day, and Mary was shutting down the office equipment and saying goodnight to the other staff who were already leaving for the day.  Sherlock swooped into the office before Mary could lock the outer door.

“Oh!  Hello, Sherlock!  John’s almost done, he’s just waiting for Mrs. Cooper to get to the end of her complaints about aging, and he’ll be out.”

Mary slipped off her white nurse’s jacket and put it on a hook behind the reception desk.  She wore a black knit dress underneath, highlighted by the beautiful gold pendant John had bought her for her birthday.  The black was flattering for her, slimming her burgeoning belly, now in her last trimester, and looked comfortable and warm without being bulky.

Sherlock was just about to say something, but it seemed to slip his mind as he looked at her in her black dress as she covered it with her dark winter coat.

Mary saw him staring at her, his head tilted to one side, and oddly frowning and cocking an eyebrow at the same time.  She smiled at Sherlock as the frown grew to create a full-fledged wrinkle just at the top of his nose.  He was certainly lost in thought about something, and she wondered if he’d snap out of it any time soon.  She used to think that John was exaggerating when he told her how Sherlock would sometimes go off into his own little world like that, but by now she knew it was all true.

“Sherlock?  Something I can do for you?” she tried.

He blinked when she spoke and then brought himself up to his full height, his coat, scarf, height and expression all combining to make him appear quite formidable.

“It was you,” was all he said.

Okay, that was a non sequitur if she ever heard one.  She gave a little laugh as she buttoned her coat.  “Yep.  It was me,” she conceded good-naturedly.  “It was me when?  Where?”

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose, his eyes darting back and forth over her, still frowning.  “It was you.  At the pool.  One of the laser sights on John and me was yours.”

Mary gave a little gasp and rubbed her fingers across her belly where the baby was prodding her. 

***

He’d suspected John would be coming back, but he didn’t have time to prepare his old room.  He’d been using it for experiments, since Janine hadn’t put up with his quirky lab equipment and grotesque body parts in the kitchen.  And he’d kind of liked working up there among things that had spent time with his John, so he’d kept it that way after the Janine thing was over.  Because of this, on John’s second day, after John had been asleep on the sofa for a couple hours, when he woke and mumbled something about going to bed, Sherlock said absently, without looking up from his laptop, “Use my room.”

“No, no, that’s all right, I’ll use my old room,” John said as he sleep-stumbled toward the steps, the plaid wool lap blanket falling to the floor unnoticed.

Sherlock shrugged.

A few moments later, John was back downstairs.  “What happened to my bed?”

“Experiment.  Fortunately, no fire damage to the rest of the room.”

John hesitated in the doorway.  “But where will you sleep?”

“I slept a couple days ago.  I won’t need it tonight.”  Sherlock waved John off with an absent gesture, knowing that if he appeared engrossed in something that John would assume he’d be up all night working on it, and would accept Sherlock’s offer.

John started to move towards Sherlock’s door, then stopped and turned back.  “I hope you’ve washed the bedding since you and Janine…”

Sherlock made a face of disgust and mock-shivered.  “Of course,” he spat, “please don’t remind me.  It was _brutal_.”

John just stood there, and Sherlock deduced his blinking, confused expressions without even seeing.  Finally, after John continued to stand still, Sherlock sighed and looked up at him impatiently.  “What.”

“It was _brutal_?  What was brutal?”

“ _It_.  What I had to do for that case.”

Another blinking hesitation, then, with a lick of his lips, “You mean having sex with her?”

Sherlock gave the appalled mock-shiver again.  “I never had sex with her.  Sleeping next to her was appalling enough.”

“But…why?”

“I did it for the _case_ , John.  I didn’t _choose_ to do it.”

“She’s a beautiful girl, Sherlock.  I would think that would have been one of the _perks_ of working the case.”

Sherlock went back to his laptop and fluttered a dismissive wave at the idea.  “Not really my area, John.”

Sherlock waited while John placed the memory of when he had heard Sherlock say those words before.  He tapped away on his keyboard, typing nothing, just wanting John to relax and go to bed, but apparently John wasn’t finished yet.

“Right.  Not your area.  Well, I guess that makes me feel a little better about you stringing her along the way you did.” 

“It was for the _case_ , John,” Sherlock repeated angrily, losing patience for a moment, even with this sleepy, broken man standing in his doorway.

“Right.  I get that.  But I was quite surprised at first when I thought you had a real girlfriend.  And maybe a bit jealous that you hadn’t told me about it sooner.  And after what Mycroft had said that one time, I almost believed you really were a virgin all this time.”

“I am.”

“What?”  John took a step forward.  Was he never going to go to bed?  Was Sherlock going to have to give him a detailed description of his lack of sexual history before he’d let this go?  “I’m sorry.  I just thought you’d had sex with her, and it just surprised me, that’s all.”

“I did not, John.  But even if I had, it would have been: _For. The. Case_.” Sherlock enunciated clearly, with a bit of venom.  “I mean, it wouldn’t have been _real_ sex, I don’t think.  I wouldn’t have wanted to do it, and I wouldn’t have liked it.”

John nodded, taking Sherlock’s rancor in stride.  “So you’re saying you’ve never had _real_ sex.  Have you ever had sex ‘ _for a case’_?”  John made annoying air-quotes which Sherlock tried to ignore.

“I don’t think so.  If I have, I’ve deleted it out of sheer disgust.”

John thought for a moment.  “So you may not _actually_ be a virgin then.”

Sherlock let his hand smack the tabletop.  “Would you tell a girl who’d been raped that she’s not _actually_ a virgin anymore?”

“No, no, of course not,” John rushed to appease.  Then those silly blinks started again as John went through one, two, four, five different expressions.  “Are you saying you’ve been raped?”

“No, John,” Sherlock sighed and bent his head to ruffle impatiently through his curls.  “I just didn’t think it counted if I did it for the case, and I wouldn’t have chosen to, and I wouldn’t have _liked_ it anyway.”

Sherlock picked up a fallen strand of hair from his keyboard, and as he tossed it aside, he saw that John had approached and was right next to him.  John’s hand fell warmly on his shoulder and Sherlock looked up in surprise. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.  Of course that wouldn’t count.  I’m sorry I pried.  It’s none of my—“

Sherlock suddenly realized something and broke out into a grin.  “It’s fine.  It’s good to hear you talking and thinking about something else.  You’ve barely said a word in two days.”

Something sad flickered in John’s eyes, but he pasted a brave grin on.  “And all it took was a discussion about sex.”

“If I’d have known it was that easy to get you out of your mood, I would have had sex with you sooner!”

John’s warm palm disappeared from Sherlock’s shoulder as he stared at him with huge round eyes, and Sherlock replayed what he’d said in his mind.  Ah.  Sherlock decided to file away in his mind exactly what a Freudian slip was and come back to it later. 

In the meantime, he stammered, “I-I mean a sex _dis-discussion_ , John!  A _discussion_!”

“Right.  Right.  Well,” John began to back away toward the kitchen, looking uncomfortable, but merely amused and not horrified at least.  “I guess on that note I’ll just go to bed.”  John took two steps, and then gave a little humorous snort.  He rubbed his forehead and then turned around to add, “I was going to say that if you do need to sleep, I’m used to sharing by now.  I can be adult about it. Your virginity can be safe with me.”

The thoughts that stampeded through Sherlock at that moment caused his heart to speed up, and he firmly pressed his hands to the tabletop to avoid any tell-tale trembling.  The idea of sharing a bed with John Hamish Watson made his adrenaline kick in, and odd stray thoughts and weird physical sensations battled for his attention.  Nothing like this had happened when Janine had shared his bed.  Nor had he felt any of this any time The Woman had propositioned him.  But he’d file all that away for now.  This was not a time to explore it.  John would need time to heal, and Sherlock needed time to parse all this data.

So Sherlock merely nodded and said “Goodnight, John.”

***

While John was downstairs paying for the pizza delivery, Sherlock turned to Mary sharply. 

“Were you one of Moriarty’s team assigned to shoot John or Gavin or Mrs. Hudson if I didn’t jump?”

Mary sighed.  “It’s Greg, Sherlock.  Lestrade’s first name is Greg,” she answered evasively.  Would he never let this go?  John had forgiven her for her past, and she thought Sherlock had too, but it was like he kept this in his head like Charles Magnusson, and every once in a while took it out for a spin.

“Were you?” He persisted, his voice hushed as John’s footsteps on the stairway neared.  “Were you one of them?

Mary shrugged.  “You’re the genius detective.  I’d have thought you’d figure it out yourself.  But no.  I wasn’t there.”

***

Five days after John came back home to Sherlock, he was still using Sherlock’s bed.  Neither had made any mention or made any moves toward rearranging John’s old room and getting him a new mattress.  Sherlock didn’t know if it was because John didn’t think his return to Baker Street was permanent, or if John just liked the comfort of Sherlock’s bed, but he didn’t want to press John about it.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

But on the fifth night, Sherlock could no longer stay awake.  There was no case to work on to keep his attention and adrenaline going.  He stepped down from his perch on his armchair and stared at the sofa.  It was comfortable enough.  It was almost long enough for him to stretch out on. He’d done so many times.  It should do.  Grab the blanket off John’s chair and he should be all right.

Blanket in hand, Sherlock was just about ready to lie down when he thought he heard a noise from down the hall.  Always on the alert for John’s well-being these days—having once contemplated his own suicide, even if it was faked, Sherlock worried about John and his hurt and his gun—Sherlock began to carefully step toward the back of the kitchen, listening closely.

There was nothing more than an arrhythmic breathing, and an occasional quiet gasp.  Sherlock knew without having to make much of a deduction that John was weeping.  Frowning, Sherlock took another step into the hallway, listening, hoping he was wrong and that maybe John was just having a dream.  Or a wank.  Or doing anything but crying.

A floorboard creaked, and the sounds suddenly stopped. 

John had heard him, and suddenly had suppressed the little noises he was making, so he knew that Sherlock was near.  Sherlock stopped sneaking and walked boldly to the bathroom, relieved himself, and brushed his teeth, as if this had been his intent along, and as if he’d heard nothing before.  Turning out the light in the bathroom, Sherlock moved to the bedroom door and turned the knob, listening again.  If John had been dreaming, it was over, and it wouldn’t have been an embarrassment for John.  If John had been wanking, he was done, or had quit, and knowing John, he wouldn’t have been that much embarrassed about that either.  But if John had been crying, he’d never want Sherlock to know.

Sherlock heard a wet sniff as the door creaked open.

Sherlock made up his mind that he would not be sleeping on the couch that night.  He was going to stay with John.  He’d pretend he hadn’t heard a thing, pretend he didn’t know what John had been doing, and he’d innocently just let his presence be John’s comfort, as it had seemed to be the first night when John had slept on the sofa.

He lifted the corner of the bedding and slid in, trying to be smooth about it and not jostle John too much.  John shifted from the middle of the bed over to the other side as Sherlock settled himself in.  Sherlock knew John was awake, but lay in silence, allowing John his privacy. 

After a few minutes of uncomfortable stillness, John raised himself up on an elbow and reached for a tissue from the box on the night table.  He blew his nose wetly twice, then left the soggy tissue on the table as he settled back down, his back to Sherlock.

“Sorry, Sherlock.”

John Watson should not have to apologize.  It was ridiculous.  This lovely man with the broken heart simply should not be apologizing, not to Sherlock, not to anyone.  Nothing that had happened, none of the horrors he’d been through, had ever been his fault.  John was an innocent, as kind and as decent of a man as there ever was.  And apologizing for crying was simply out of the question.

Sherlock of course couldn’t say this.  He was crap at saying the right thing at the right time.  So instead he reached his arm over and grasped John’s shoulder.

“It’s all right, John.”

He felt when John nodded and settled into the blankets to try to sleep.  Sherlock waited, debating within himself, for twenty minutes.  Then he sidled himself gently across the mattress and snugged himself up behind John, his arm moving from John’s shoulder to curl around his middle.  “It’s all right, John,” he repeated, his breath a whisper across the back of John’s head.

John was silent, but his hand found Sherlock’s and clasped it tight.

***

“That code,” Sherlock began, pushing aside the drapery so he could gaze down onto the street in front of 221B.  It just would not do if John arrived unexpectedly early, and Sherlock would not have him interrupt this conversation midway through.  “That skip code you showed me the night that Magnusson took John.”

The baby kicked in Mary’s belly and she absently soothed the spot with her hand.  She wouldn’t ask Sherlock if he wanted to feel the baby, not after he’d gotten so woozy after the last time.  John had thought it was funny and kind of sweet, but Mary had just thought it was typical of this odd friend of John’s.  The man could weather a gunshot wound better than the miracle growing inside her.  “Yes, I remember.  You deduced much of my past based on the fact that I knew it was a skip code.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock responded, and looked to be lost in thought for a long moment.  A full minute passed as she waited.  Then, without turning to look at her, he continued as if there had been no gap at all, “The words he used, the supposedly random words that you were supposed to skip.”

Did he intend that as a question?  Mary soothed another kick, and waited again.

“Those words weren’t all random, were they?”

What was he talking about?  “What are you talking about?” she asked, confused.  “Saint or Sinner?  The more is Less?”

He half-turned at the window, and she saw the arch of his brow as he added, “John or James Watson?”

Mary’s heart skipped a beat and the baby didn’t like it, kicking her hard in the kidneys.  Mary arched her back as she sat forward in John’s chair to shift the weight of the baby inside her.  Maybe Sherlock was getting at something else.  Maybe Sherlock didn’t mean… _that_.  “What do you mean?”

“ _James_ , Mary.  John or _James_.”

 _Oh God._   Mary’s heart fluttered again, and again the baby reminded her to stop it by brutalizing her insides.  Mary rubbed her belly and swallowed a sick feeling down as she struggled to play innocent.  “Saint _James_ the Less”, she offered.  “It was the clue to find John.”

Sherlock dropped the curtain and whirled on her.  “Do you think I’m suddenly stupid, Mary!?  Do you think I don’t remember that Magnusson asked the question twice?  ‘John or James Watson’ the first time, ‘James or John’ the second time.  James was only part of the code the _second_ time!”

Mary didn’t say anything.  If she admitted the truth now, what if Sherlock was just fishing and hadn’t already figured out the whole truth?  But if she denied what she thought Sherlock was implying, if he didn’t already know, he would then deduce the truth.  Best to stay silent and wait to see what he actually knew.

“Magnusson had more information on you than just your history as an assassin.”  Sherlock paused, and timed the next sentence for best dramatic effect.  “And more than your history of working for _James_ Moriarty.”

Mary steeled herself and answered Sherlock with nothing but a hard look.

Sherlock met her gaze and was unintimidated, but left the next deduction unsaid.  “Does John know?” he asked quietly, even though his expression was not soft at all.  “Will you at least tell him before the baby comes?”

“Suppose I don’t?”

Sherlock sighed and slumped and turned back to the window, turning the drape aside and watching the street again.  “He deserves to know the truth, if nothing else.  Whether he forgives you again, or not, is up to him.  We both know from experience that while initial revelations can cause him great anger, he does have a kind and forgiving nature for those he loves.”

Mary settled back into the chair and sighed, all the fight gone out of her.  There was no use denying anything to Sherlock, ever.  “I suppose this is the part where you say that if I don’t tell John the truth, you will.”

“No,” Sherlock sighed, and shook his head slowly, sadly.  “I may lack a certain social sensitivity at times, but I do know that it is not my place to tell him this.  It must be you.”

“And what if I decide not to tell him?  Maybe what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Sherlock’s arched brow turned toward her again.  “Would you take that chance?  Take the chance that Moriarty won’t tell him first?”

***

It was the middle of the day, but John’s depression didn’t care, pulling him into an exhausted slumber even as he tried to read the newspaper and pretend that nothing horrendous had happened, that this was just another day at 221B just like in the old days.  Sherlock looked up from his smartphone screen and gazed at John as his chin bent slowly to his chest and sleep overtook him.  He rose and gently pried the newspaper from John’s grasp, careful not to rattle the pages and wake him.  He folded the newspaper back in the kitchen and left it there before returning to the sitting room.

Though it was John who needed comfort these days, Sherlock found some comfort of his own in just watching John’s lax expression as he slept. The deep frown lines and dark under-eye circles seemed diminished as he breathed evenly.  It was so different from his waking state during these last few days.  It pained Sherlock, physically, somewhere deep inside his gut, to see John so sad and listless.  He wished he could just delete the whole last three years from John’s memory—Sherlock’s ‘death’, Mary, and all that had happened because of Mary, the baby, Charles Magnusson, and Moriarty.  Especially Moriarty. 

Moriarty had won, finally.  He’d burned the heart out of John, and in doing so, burned Sherlock’s in turn.  Mary was gone, likely never to return, and even Sherlock felt an empty space inside himself that used to be filled with affection for her.  Affection for the happiness that he’d thought she’d brought to his John.  And even though he felt he should hate her for the hurt she’d brought down on John, Sherlock found he couldn’t, and wondered if John felt the same.

They didn’t talk about it.  John knew that Sherlock knew, so what needed to be said beyond that?  He’d gone from being a happily married man, baby on the way, and working alongside his best friend, sharing his life with the two—soon to be three—people he loved most, to this broken shell of a man, soon to be divorced, and as it turned out, not the father he thought he would be.  That had been the last straw.  And even then, Sherlock wondered whether his little friend with the huge heart might have even forgiven that, and accepted another man’s baby, learned to love the child and raise it as his own if it hadn’t turned out to be the baby of that one person who had the power to make it all fall apart.

Sherlock wished Moriarty were there, right now, so that Sherlock could blow off his face the way he had Charles Magnusson’s.

Sherlock stood by John’s chair, watching him sleep, and gave in to the impulse to pet his hair, sweeping his fingers over the strands so lightly it was barely a touch at all.

***

Gavin Lestrade had one of those looks on his face, the kind that meant he had something he wanted to ask but didn’t want to be made to feel foolish for asking.  Those were Sherlock’s favorite kinds of questions and he always was sure to impress upon Lestrade with just the right degree of disdain and disgust, just how idiotic he thought his questions were.

Sherlock waited, but Graham only frowned and made his mouth into a funny line.

“Problem?” he asked, a bit impatient to go meet up with John after his shift.  He didn’t like to leave John alone for long.  He didn’t want to give him much time to brood.

Grant shook his head and shrugged.  “Nothing to do with the case.”

“Well, what then?” Sherlock asked, pulling his coat on over his shoulders and reaching for his scarf on Gilbert’s desk.

Gary shrugged again and made his face into something that looked like he was in pain.  “It’s just that…when John left here the other day, he said he’d see you back home at the flat.”

Sherlock stopped in the middle of wrapping his scarf.  Well, this was unexpected.  He hadn’t even noticed that slip himself, and wasn’t sure what John would be telling people, or what John would want him to say.  He then forced himself to continue as if he hadn’t reacted at all.  “Yes.”

“He’s been really quiet lately.”

Sherlock sighed, and buttoned his coat, paying precise attention to fitting the buttons through the red-threaded button holes.  “Yes.”

Gordon waited until Sherlock looked up again, and raised his eyes in askance.  “Everything okay in paradise?”

Sherlock flipped up his collar.  “Not really.”

“They have a little domestic?”

Sherlock stared at Griffin’s hopeful face.  He wished he could have allayed all his worries, but there was no point in lying.  He would have to find out sometime.

“I’m afraid it’s much worse than that, Gomer.”

The DI was so distressed that he didn’t even bother to correct Sherlock.  “Aw, damn, I’m really sorry to hear that.  So he left and moved back in with you, huh?  I never would have guessed that of her.”

Sherlock was so surprised at the deduction that he couldn’t really believe that Guido had gotten it correct so quickly.  He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at him. “What do you mean, you wouldn’t have guessed that of her?”

Gus frowned and shoved his hands into his pockets, looking down at his cluttered desk.  “I mean, Sherlock, that, other than being _dead_ , there are only two reasons why a man would leave his pregnant wife this far along.  One is that he’s just a first class number one arsehole…”

When Glen didn’t continue, Sherlock prodded, “And the other is…?”

Godfrey looked uncomfortable.  “Do I need to say it?”

“Well, how will I know if you’ve correctly deduced the situation unless you actually share with me what your deduction is?”

Grady gave an exasperated growl.  “The other reason is…well…you know.  If he found out that the baby…” He glanced around to make sure no one would overhear.  “That the baby wasn’t his.”

Sherlock had almost been expecting him to say it, but when he did, Sherlock found that it still took him aback.  He met Lestrade’s eyes for a moment, but had to look away when he felt his own eyes heating, and his vision blurred. 

“Say it ain’t so, Sherlock.  Please.”

Sherlock just sighed and shook his head sadly, blinking. 

“Very astute, Greg,” was all he could make himself say before he turned and fled the office.

***

They’d been sharing Sherlock’s bed for months.  At this point, if one of them brought up getting John back into his old room upstairs, it would be incredibly awkward, and possibly a little insulting.  Neither one ever said anything about what happened in Sherlock’s bed anyway.  Not that it was anything either of them should be embarrassed about, or ashamed of.  It just wasn’t something that needed discussion.

John would go to bed each night, and sometimes Sherlock would stay up all night in the kitchen, sitting room, or with an experiment in John’s old room.  And sometimes Sherlock would join John in bed.  They never talked to each other at night in bed, nothing further than a quick apology when John would find himself succumbing to tears, nothing more than a couple soft soothing words from Sherlock.  But they always found themselves wound together, on one side or the other, Sherlock nestled tightly around the back of John’s small form, or John curled sweetly around as much of Sherlock’s back as he could cover.  It was a comfort they both seemed to need to give and take, and one they both enjoyed.  But it was a silent acknowledgement.

Until one night, when John—Sherlock’s brave, perceptive John—raised up on one elbow and turned to face Sherlock when he crawled into bed to spoon up behind John. 

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“Janine…” John started, hesitated, and then lay back down facing Sherlock.  Sherlock couldn’t see his eyes in the dark, but could almost hear John blinking.

“Mmm?”

“Janine wasn’t…she wasn’t ‘your area’?”

“No.”

John was quiet for so long that Sherlock began to think that was all John had to say, as odd as it was.  But then John swallowed and cleared his throat a little nervously.

“Sherlock.”

“Mmm?”

“Am I?”

“Are you what?”  Sherlock thought he knew what John meant, but he suddenly froze.  It would be best to clarify, and make sure, and in the meantime, maybe Sherlock’s mouth wouldn’t feel so dry or his heart pound so loudly.

“Am I ‘your area’?”

Sherlock looked at John in the dark, able to see only the outline of his head and shoulders in the meager city light coming through the shades.  He didn’t need any light to imagine John’s face in the dark.  John, his beacon of light, his best friend, the one person in the world who made Sherlock feel accepted in all of his oddness and quirkiness and social bumbles.  John. 

Sherlock lifted his head and moved forward to kiss John’s temple.  It was just a simple, innocent kiss, yet it was so much more heartfelt, so much more miraculous, so much _more_ , than any kiss he’d ever shared with Janine.  Or anyone.  Would John be okay if he admitted this?  After all the protestations of the past, “I’m not gay, I’m not his boyfriend, we’re not a couple…,” could John be okay with this?

“Of course you are, John,” Sherlock whispered hesitantly.  “Of course you are my area.”

He felt the warmth of John’s fingertips slide down his cheek, and then felt John’s breath waft over the tip of his nose before John’s lips gave him a small peck of a kiss on his forehead.

“Right,” John answered, and snuggled closer into Sherlock’s arms. 

Sherlock accepted John’s warmth gratefully, but hesitated, unsure of himself, because he was always unsure of himself when it came to matters of the heart.  He breathed in deeply, savoring the scent, the warmth, the very air of John, and whispered, “Problem?”

John tucked his face into Sherlock’s neck and also breathed deeply, his shoulders relaxing.  “ _Nope_.  None at all.”

 

_End_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a story this quickly before. My usual process is to write, re-write, edit, re-write, etc. But after the last episode, I am just so...so...I can't even find the words. So this is what came out. It's as jumbled and raw as I feel.


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